<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>God's Own Country by Siria</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25614286">God's Own Country</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria'>Siria</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Yorkshire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:08:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>668</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25614286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn’t Joe’s land, but he’s still able to identify that certain scent in the air that says this is a place on the verge of spring.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>212</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>God's Own Country</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/gifts">sheafrotherdon</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli">celli</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu">dizzzylu</a> for betaing. For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon">Cate</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The landscape before him looks nothing like any Joe had walked before his first death. The ground slopes away beneath his feet before pitching and rolling upwards again into low, craggy hills, all of it covered with tufts of grass and heather. Something that’s a little more than a stream but not truly a river snakes along the valley floor, too far away for Joe to hear over the early morning chorus of bird song. This isn’t Joe’s land, but he’s still able to identify that certain scent in the air that says this is a place on the verge of spring. Soon, the trees that huddle wind-stunted on the valley floor will sprout leaves again. The grass, soft and dew-wet beneath his feet, will turn a deeper shade of green.</p><p>Maybe they will still be here to see all this happen. Maybe they won’t. No safe house is ever safe for very long, even if the slate-and-stone farmhouse behind him is comforting in its low-slung solidity. But the breeze that blows is gentle and the early morning is tranquil. Joe stands there in the sweet quiet, hands wrapped around his coffee mug, and is pleased at the thought that wherever in the world they might be a few months from now, the seasons will unfold here regardless.</p><p>From behind him, Joe hears a soft grumble of complaint. Strong arms wrap around him from behind; a familiar chin hooks itself over his shoulder. “I love you to the depths of my soul,” Nicky says, voice thick with sleep, “but you left me to wake up in a cold bed, alone.”</p><p>“It is morning, <i>habibi</i>,” Joe says, leaning into Nicky’s warmth, “and thus you cannot blame me for wanting to greet the sun, since not all of us are nocturnal creatures who would happily sleep past noon if left to their own devices.”</p><p>“You miss my point, <i>ya hayati</i>,” Nicky says, and Joe wonders: if another person were there right now, what would they see on Joe’s face? Would they be able to fathom the depths of his love for this man from the quality of the smile that spreads across his face?</p><p>“It is possible,” Joe concedes, a knowing tease. “But it will be spring here soon, and it seemed a shame to miss any of it.”</p><p>“Well, then,” Nicky says, and Joe can hear the smile in his voice, too. They are silent for a long while, watching the sun climb higher in the sky while the coffee cools in Joe’s mug. On the other side of the valley, a flock of sheep moves slowly over the sloping ground, their bleating carried fitfully on the breeze. Eventually, Nicky says, “I hear they call this God’s Own Country. The locals, I mean."</p><p>Joe has lived a very long time. He has heard so many declarations about how this piece of soil or that is peculiarly favoured by the divine. He wearied of them all centuries ago. But that doesn't mean there aren't places he can look at and think: yes, here is somewhere that was shaped with a particular grace.  Joe's faith may be an imperfect thing, but it has proved to be a persistent one.</p><p>Joe turns in Nicky's embrace. Nicky's shirt is rumpled from sleep, his hair tousled, his eyes bright. Not for the first time Joe wonders at how the two of them have found themselves together, here: after everything, amid all the wide expanse of the world. "<i>Amore mio</i>," he says, and kisses Nicky with all the focus he can muster.</p><p>A safe house can never be a home, and the theological niceties of land and belonging will have to remain unsolved for another while yet. But for now Joe has Nicky in his arms and the prospect of another day with his beloved, while the birds wheel and chatter overhead and the sky turns an ever deeper blue. The world turns on, and Joe is loved, and spring is coming. It is enough.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Set somewhere which looks <a href="https://twitter.com/AmandaOwen8/status/1275915925468983301">something like this</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>